Waiting for the Monsoon (44 page)

She put her hand on the doorknob. The candle illuminated the old wood. . . . She saw how the grain swirled across the door like a churning river. She could feel the pressure of the water against her back.

She opened the door.

You're here.

Yes.

I was waiting for you.

Waiting? For me?

I knew you would come.

Five million thoughts and questions shot through her mind, all of them leading her in the wrong direction.

Take it easy. I can't hear you if I can't see you.

“But you're not even looking at me,” she said in surprise.

He raised his eyes.

They looked at each other for an instant. A faint gust of wind that came in through the open window set the candle flames in motion. Their shadows danced on the wall.

She took a deep breath. “I've found fabric.”

Fabric you like?

No
, she thought, and she said, “Yes.”

May I see it?

“Yes,” she said, but she thought,
No.

If you don't want to . . .

Charlotte felt awkward and embarrassed. She put her hands in her pockets and took them out again. She clenched her fists and unclenched them again.
I just don't know. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know what's happening. Of course, you can see the material. You can have it.
She smoothed her skirt and straightened a button on her blouse.
I don't even know what I feel anymore, what I think. I don't want to think. I don't want to hear all this. Why are we doing this? It's impossible. I'm so much older than you. I'm white. I'm British. Can't you see that this is impossible?

He got up and reached for the lid of his sewing machine.

No, stay. I want you to stay
.

He stopped collecting his things. Once more they looked at each other for a fraction of a second, and then looked down again. The clock up on the landing struck ten. Neither of them moved. . . . Only their shadows danced in the candlelight, as if conscious of their agitation.

After the last chime, he asked,
Will you show me the fabrics?
He needed all his willpower to simply ask that question, to break the tension. He knew that if he allowed himself to drift into her thoughts, he would want to take her in his arms. He knew he must not do that, because then, at a stroke, he would lose everything he had built up at the cost of so much effort and perseverance.

Slowly she turned around and went back to the stairwell. She strode up the stairs: a dark shape, with only the contour of her body illuminated. The creaking stair and the ticking of the clock accompanied her.

Time. Give me time
, she thought.

You have time. All the time you need.

Her footsteps were soundless. The rustle of her clothes was also stilled. There was only the ticking of the clock.

Who are you? Where do you come from?

I don't know.
He put his foot on the first step.

At each step, the stairs groaned softly and the fabric of his trousers grazed his leg.

“It's too dark here,” she said softly, suddenly realizing that her father might not be asleep yet.

He's asleep.

“Can you hear him, too?” she whispered in surprise.

Can't you hear him?

All her senses were so focused on his tall figure that she hadn't noticed the regular sound of snoring that emanated from the nursery. He knelt down beside the clock. His hand slid across the pile of fabric. He felt raw silk and wild silk, taffeta and silk damask, the soft nap of sumptuous velvet, gossamer-thin cotton, and sturdy linen. His hands glided over embroidery and lace, woven and knitted fabrics, dyed material and prints. He caressed the lengths of cloth that her mother had bought sixty years ago. Given the climate, it was a miracle that they hadn't mouldered away or been devoured by vermin, like everything else in the house. That they were still intact was thanks to the general, who ordered the last of his wife's mementoes to be packed with a load of mothballs in sturdy canvas bags, and then covered in plastic. Charlotte took a candle stump out of the trunk and lit it. Then she carefully placed the burning candle next to him on the floor.

They knelt there are the top of the stairs. Only then did he see the colours. The gleaming rose-coloured silk that lay on top and the deep pink beneath it. The length of purple that had reminded her of funerals now had a royal air, while the yellow cotton that had resembled the murderous sun was now the colour of sunflowers. Underneath there were lengths of turquoise cotton and cobalt blue linen. Madan's hand skimmed over a piece of yellow-green silk and then — as if it was now demanding attention after lying hidden for years — he pulled out an ethereal blue fabric embroidered with bright red roses. He was beaming.

For the dress you should wear on the day the first flowers come into bloom.

“But blue isn't my colour.” she whispered.

Blue? Of course it is.

“I thought green was the only colour I looked good in.” He cast his eye over the pile and pulled out a piece of azure blue silk, which he held up to her face. He looked at her with a critical eye, frowning slightly.

“You see!” she cried out, forgetting her father.

No, it's not the colour. There's not enough light. I can't see the colour of your eyes.

Shyly, she held the candle up to her face.
He thinks I'm ugly.

You're so beautiful!
He caught the scent of jasmine and saw his own face twice reflected in her greyish-brown eyes.

That same instant they both lowered their eyes. Charlotte began to move around nervously, rushing over to the crate with the candle stubs. She grabbed a handful, put them down on the floor, one by one, and lit them.

Madan, who also understood that he had gone too far, again busied himself with the pile of colourful fabrics. He felt like pulling all of them over his head, but he realized that she was so close that he couldn't hide his thoughts from her.

They sat with their backs to one another.

I don't want to think, and yet I'm thinking
, he thought.
I've never been afraid of my thoughts. I'm constantly thinking, praying, hoping, dreaming, finding, fantasizing, reflecting, wandering . . .

I'm afraid.
She closed her eyes.

So am I.
He looked at her.

I'm afraid.
The thought echoed through her mind.

He pulled a vermilion-red length of silk from the pile, walked over to her, and draped it over her shoulders.

She kept her eyes closed, but her hand stroked its soft folds.

It goes beautifully with your hair.

My hair is grey.

It's not grey . . . there are some grey hairs.

Charlotte opened her eyes and was startled when she saw that it was red. “Red is for girls!”

Stand up.
He ignored her reaction, and again looked at her with a professional eye.

Cautiously she rose from the floor. The fabric slid off her shoulder. She suddenly felt naked. He snatched a length of crimson from the pile and draped it over her shoulders.
You look beautiful in red.

She smiled uncertainly.

If I shape the neck like this
. He began draping the material.
Your shoulders like this.
His eyes sparkled.
And your back like this.

He walked around her, and although he didn't know how to handle the situation and she was silently begging him to stop, he went on. He didn't touch her. He only draped the fabric over her body, but the sensation was the same. He pulled another length of fabric from the pile. This one was marigold orange.

And this can be used for a very narrow border along the hem
.

She pulled the material from her shoulder.

Why did you do that?

“Red is common.”

No it isn't. Red is the colour of rage, the colour of danger, the colour of blood and revolution, of guilt and martyrs, of despair. Red is power and strife. Red is cherries and tomatoes. Copper and the earth are red. Fire, and the sun when it's about to disappear. The tulip, the gerbera, the rhododendron, the amaryllis, the orchid, the rose. Your lips are red. Red is the colour of . . . love.

Charlotte pulled the red cloth from her shoulders. She blushed and walked away from him. She could hear his thoughts, but she didn't want to hear them. Just as she hoped he wasn't listening to hers.

Madan, who in his enthusiasm to design a dress for her had overturned the entire pile of fabrics, now began to straighten them.

I'll leave. Perhaps it's for the best
.

Best for whom?
The words shot through his mind.
I'm sorry, I mustn't think that
, he excused himself.

Best for me
, Charlotte replied.
I don't know whether it's good for you, too. But it's better for me.

Then I'll go.

Where will you go?

Somewhere, just move on.

Farther, in which direction?

Farther. Down the road.

And then?

I'll find work.

And the ladies and the party . . .

There must be another tailor.

There isn't.

There's always someone else.

Not here.

Here, too.

You can't just leave.

Why not?

They would blame me.

Who?

The ladies.

I know women. I've always worked for women. They'll understand you.

Do you understand me, too?

Yes.

Why are we talking? What are we doing?

You wanted to show me the fabrics
. In his hands he held the gleaming length of red silk.

“Do I really look good in red?” she asked softly.

He nodded.
Do you know what you don't look good in?

Charlotte slowly came closer.

He drew a length of beige cotton from the pile.
This.
And again his hand delved into the pile, and he came up with a khaki-coloured cloth.
And this.

She snatched it from his hand, threw it over her shoulders with a flourish, and wrapped it tightly around her body, so it looked like a military greatcoat. Then suddenly the silence of the night was broken by a horrible scream.
Father!
She grabbed the key from the hook, opened the door, and ran over to the bed.

The sudden scream was so deafening that Madan felt like putting his hands over his ears. Still wearing the khaki remnant wrapped around her body, she ducked under the mosquito netting, which hung like a slack tent around the iron bed.

“It's all right now, I'm here,” she said to her father.

He looked at her anxiously and tried to break loose from the straps that bound him to the bed. “Go away!” he begged. His lame legs lay still, but his entire upper body fought with a vigour one wouldn't expect from a man of ninety-four. He was sobbing, hawking, and groaning, all the while looking at his daughter with frightened eyes.

“Calm now,” she said, trying to soothe him.

“Not me, not me.” There was genuine panic in his voice.

“It's all right now, Father.”

“Father? I don't have any children. Go away!” he screamed.

Madan ducked under the mosquito netting and reappeared on the other side of the bed. When Victor saw him, he stopped screaming. He was wheezing, exhausted, and his body was still quivering from the aftershocks. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. But not his eyes.

“Shoot her dead,” he suddenly whispered.

Charlotte started.

Madan didn't move a muscle.

“Shoot,” her father roared. “They're all over the place. We have to kill them.”

Charlotte was about to bend over her father, to reassure him, but he immediately started screaming again.

“Shoot! Shoot, for God's sake!”

Madan walked around to the other side of the bed, so he was standing next to Charlotte.

“She's wearing a disguise. You can see that, can't you?” he shouted. “She's a spy.”

Calmly Madan pulled the piece of khaki material from Charlotte's shoulders and handed it to the old man.

He shouted: “You see? Didn't I tell you?” He drew the khaki material over himself and began to laugh.

Charlotte was used to her father's unpredictable onslaughts. She bent over him. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“A dream? I've never dreamt. Never in my whole life.”

“Do you want some water?”

“Yes. I'm dying of thirst. Why do they always give me those army blankets?” He pushed the khaki material away. “Much too hot!”

Charlotte gave him the bottle with the nipple.

Charlotte and Madan looked at his hollow cheeks, the greedy look in his eyes. The grey hair, the wiry body, and the thin, fragile legs that had hung there like useless appendages for the past thirty years.

With his tongue, he pushed the nipple out of his mouth. “Is she your lover?” he asked Madan.

Charlotte blushed.

Madan shook his head.

“No?” he asked in surprise.

“Father, this is Madan. He's the tailor.”

“Shut up. And don't tell me lies.”

“I'm not lying.”

“This man is no tailor.”

“Father, have some more to drink.”

Victor turned to Madan and gave him a long look. “Where do you come from?”